A Shift in Priorities
by LadyKailitha
Summary: After Sherlock is hospitalized due to self-neglect and malnutrition, John begins to realize the effect he has on the great detective, and begins to shift his priorities back to the one person who means the most. Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello darlings, I'm back with another romantic Johnlock fic for your delight and pleasure. This has wildly gotten out of control and will be several chapters long. I'm not even done writing it all up, but I decided considering how long it's been taking to finish, I'd go ahead and start posting in the mean time. It is deliciously long and fluffy and I hope you all enjoy it.**

 **Thanks as ever to OldPingHai, who betas these things for me. I'd be lost without her.**

* * *

John breathed out a sigh of distress. It had been a long day at the surgery and all he wanted to do was put up his feet with a nice cup of tea. But alas, it was not meant to be. For that idiot of a flatmate of his had decided to up and faint at a crime scene.

John was on his way home from work when Greg called to tell him that Sherlock was in the hospital. He had collapsed while chasing a criminal. So, okay, it wasn't _exactly_ a crime scene, but it was damn near close enough.

So instead of going home like he had so desperately wanted, he had gotten off the Tube and taken a cab to St. Mary's. At least someone had the forethought not to send him to Bart's. He dashed into the A&E to find a harried-looking Greg waiting for him.

"John!" the Detective Inspector called as soon as Greg spotted him.

John rushed over. "Hey! What happened, _precisely_?" he asked.

"Christ, if I know," Greg huffed. "He dashed off like always. By the time me and my team caught up to him, the suspect was gone, and Sherlock was there on the ground. There was no physical damage or any indication he was drugged, so passed out is the best thing they could figure."

"Have they said anything since the initial diagnosis?" John asked.

Greg shook his head. "Not to me they haven't." He jerked his head down the hallway, "Mycroft is speaking with them now." John followed Greg's eyes to see the politician talking to an older female doctor. But not one he was familiar with. She must have been fairly new then.

John sighed. There was nothing he could do until Mycroft was through talking to her. He slumped into a nearby plastic chair and hung his head over his knees, elbows on his thighs. Five minutes later a cup of very black coffee was being thrust under his face.

He looked up to see Greg eyeing him wearily. "You look as bad as I feel," the Inspector remarked as John took the cup of coffee.

John drank a long sip of the coffee, letting the caffeine hit his system. "Long shift at the surgery, two of the doctors on staff called in sick today."

"Why do you stay there?" Greg asked as he took a sip of his own coffee. "It's not for the money. Even I know that. You two are making it hand over fist with his little sleuthing thing he does on the side when he's not helping the Met."

"I know. Just need something outside this-" he waved vaguely Sherlock's direction.

Greg cocked his head to the side. "You still get together to watch games with your old rugby team, right?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"You still see Bill Murray and your old army mates, yeah?"

"Okay, but-"

"You got other friends, right? Like the boys at the Met and your fellow doctors and nurses, you see them outside work, yeah?"

John nodded. When he wasn't working with Sherlock he was down at the pub with one group of friends or another.

"Well, guess who he's got?"

John sighed. "Just me."

"Too right. Now, it seems to me that you are wearing yourself out when you don't have to be."

John hung his head. "God, you're right. And I've known for a long time now."

"Good." Greg looked down the hall. "Perfect timing. Here comes Mycroft."

John glanced to where the tall politician was strolling toward them swinging his umbrella back and forth like a pendulum. Mycroft was not his usual self. He looked very ruffled for a man who was usually so put together.

John rose to his feet, clenching and unclenching his left hand. "Is he okay?" he asked before either man had time to say a word.

Greg gave him a strange look, before asking Mycroft, "What happened?"

He ignored John's question. "According to his doctor, he fainted. Apparently, it has been over a week since he last consumed anything besides the occasional biscuit and a cup of tea or two. Usually because Mrs Hudson made it for him." He finally turned to John, casting him an accusatory glare.

The blond sighed heavy and deep. It was reminiscent of his sigh when he first heard of Sherlock's hospitalization, only more resigned. But he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

"He's a grown man, Mycroft. I'm his friend and flatmate, not his keeper. I can't force him to do anything."

The taller man raised a sceptical eyebrow and Greg snorted in disbelief. John glared at them both.

"You might not be my brother's keeper, Dr Watson, but surely it hasn't escaped even your notice that he tends to eat and sleep more when you are around than when you are absent?"

John scowled at his shoes. How many times had he come home from a long week at work where he had barely seen the detective, only to find out that not only was he on his fourth nicotine patch, he hadn't slept in days and had been subsisting on biscuits and scones.

"More like stealing from my plate or falling asleep on my lap," John groused. It was a pale argument, more like a token protest.

"Sounds almost romantic to me," Mycroft said with a barely concealed smile.

Greg snorted an aborted laugh when John's head snapped up to glare at the smug politician.

John had opened his mouth to retort when a nurse came out clutching a clipboard.

"Dr Watson?" she asked. John's jaw snapped closed with a click.

"Hey, Amy," he greeted. He and Sherlock had been to this hospital so often that almost all the nurses and doctors knew him.

"If you'll come with me," she said with a smile.

John nodded and then stood up. "You'll excuse me. They probably want to go over a few things with me about Sherlock." He followed the nurse, pointedly ignoring the smiles from Greg and Mycroft.

They stopped in front of Sherlock's room and John glanced through the window at his friend. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but John could see the stamps of his malnutrition on the circles under those fluttering eyelashes. His skin was sallow, having lost its healthy glow, and his cheekbones stood out more prominently then ever before. He sighed. This was the product of weeks of self-neglect. He had just been too busy to notice.

Amy coughed discreetly. John looked at her startled, knowing full well the expression on his face was more fond than worried. It seemed that Sherlock had that effect on him. If other people had done what he had, John would be furious. But, no, he was fond. Damn it.

She smiled at him. "He's fine, John. Nothing good, regular feedings won't cure."

John knew that, he did. "Thank you."

"Normally we'd just release him into your care as soon as he woke up. But to be honest, you look like shit."

John laughed. He supposed he did; lack of sleep and no breaks at work today had completely done him in.

"Seriously, John. You look like a good stiff wind would knock you over. We can suffer one night with him if you want to go home and get a good night's sleep before tackling a grumpy flatmate."

John looked back into the room. "Thank you, but no. He'll go right back to sleep once we get home. And if I can't take care of a sleeping detective, I wouldn't be much of a doctor now, would I?"

Amy smiled. "I guess not. Just press the call button when you are ready to go, and I'll bring the release papers."

"Thanks."

"Any time, John. You take care of that mad man of yours," she said with a grin.

John laughed. "I'll certainly try." He gave her arm a squeeze and then walked into Sherlock's room.

Up close Sherlock looked worse. This was a man who had stopped caring about himself and that made John's heart ache. Instinctively John reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and immediately the detective's eyes fluttered open.

John continued to card Sherlock's hair as the younger man looked up at him.

"There you are," John said with a smile, "you had me worried, you know?" He smoothed Sherlock's hair back out of his face.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock blushed. "I never meant to. Damn this transport!" He hit the side of the mattress causing the most unangry-like sound in the history of mankind, a mild foof.  
"Hey, I happen to like this transport," John said in mock indignation.

Sherlock ducked his head away from John. "I wasn't asleep when you came in," he mumbled.

"Oh? Checking your eyelids for leaks, then?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "No. I didn't want to listen to Mycroft drone on and on about how careless I was, so I pretended to fall asleep."

"Did it work?" John asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No," he replied, sulkily. He looked down and away, causing John to have to chase him to keep his fingers soothing Sherlock's curls.

"I behaved childishly," Sherlock muttered.

John's hand stopped its movement. "Is that what Mycroft said?"

Sherlock refused to meet his eye. John gently took his friend's cheeks in his hands. "He did, didn't he?"

Sherlock nodded awkwardly in John's hands.

"I thought you were against listening to your brother," the doctor said.

"Even when he's right?"

"Especially then," John said as he brought Sherlock's forehead to his own.

Sherlock sighed. "I would only eat or sleep when you were home, and if I happened to fall asleep before you came home no matter how hard I tried to stay awake and you were gone before I awoke, I wouldn't eat at all. There were times that Mrs Hudson would force biscuits on me, but other than that..."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed. That was the question, wasn't it? "I was trying to punish you for being away all the time," he admitted after a long silence.

All right, John agreed silently, that was childish. "Maybe a bit childish, then." Sherlock wrenched his face away from John's hands, but the good doctor merely cupped his fingers around his friend's chin and pulled him back to look at him. "But I have been gone. Far, far too often lately and I didn't think about what that might do to you, and I'm sorry."

Sherlock finally looked up at John, a wide-eyed expression of wonder on his face. John thought his friend looked so adorable in that instant. Not that he would tell Sherlock that; the detective had an aversion to things that put him in a light that went against his cool facade.

That wonder slipped off Sherlock's face and he grimaced. "I assume that they are releasing me tomorrow after a night of observation."

John chuckled. "Nope," he said popping the "p".

"Against medical recommendation?" Sherlock asked with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

John shook his head, "Nope, maybe against 'Mycroft recommendation', but no. They know by now that I am more than capable of taking care of you."

Sherlock straightened up and immediately swung his feet out of bed. John moved to the side and watched as Sherlock stood, wobbled, and promptly sat back down.

"I said you were ready to go home, I didn't say you could do so of your own volition." Sherlock glared at him. "Look, Sherlock, you've fainted. You haven't got your strength back yet."

"And how long will it take to get back?" the detective groused.

"A few days at least," John said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Sherlock a firm glare.

" _Days?!_ " Sherlock protested.

"Yes, Sherlock, days."

"How am I going to survive?" Sherlock moaned.

"You'll live; I'm going to be there, remember?"

Sherlock sighed. "What about other things?"

"Sherlock, I've seen you naked before, I assure you helping you in the bath and taking a piss will not be a problem for me, unless it will be a problem for you?" Sherlock shook his head. "Good, we'll start with getting you out of that hideous gown and into some real clothes. We can't have you showing that arse of yours to everyone, now can we?"

Sherlock blushed and let John bully him into the clothes he had been wearing when he fainted.

John pressed the call button for the nurse and Amy arrived with the release papers and a wheelchair for Sherlock.

Amy helped Sherlock into the chair while John signed him out. Then the three of them made their way to a waiting taxi, Amy helping John get Sherlock into the vehicle.

All the way home, Sherlock lay pressed against John's side, his head on the doctor's shoulder, sighing happily as John ran his fingers through the detective's dark curls.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello darlings! Chapter two is up for your viewing pleasure. I'm going to try to keep to a weekly schedule, updating on Saturdays. I have five chapters written up, with another one or two more to go.**

 **Thanks to my wonderful beta, old ping hai who makes sure this stuff is all pretty for you people. :D**

* * *

Sherlock huffed, "This is hateful." London passed by the windows, lights of the city flashing patterns on their faces as the cab made its way back to Baker Street.

"It's only for a couple days, it's not like it's going to be weeks or months. You'll be back before you know it and giving the criminals of London hell," John murmured in the detective's ear as he stroked those curls.

Sherlock sighed and they rode on in silence. They were almost home when Sherlock spoke again.

"Do you know you keep stroking my hair?" he whispered against the doctor's coat.

"Oh," John said, and his hand stopped. "Is it bothering you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's fine, it's soothing."

John resumed his carding. "It is for me, too."

Sherlock lifted his head and John's fingers coiled in his locks. Sherlock gave his friend a questioning glance.

"I was so worried, Sherlock. You've never fainted before. There are a dozen things I could think of off the top my head that it could have been instead of lack of food and sleep."

Sherlock buried his head back into John's shoulder.

"I miscalculated."

John smiled down at the detective. "I know," he whispered back, as they pulled up to 221. He got up and went to open all the their doors to make getting Sherlock in easier. He came back and paid the cabbie.

John reached out his hand to the detective, "Ready?"

Sherlock looked at the outstretched hand with skepticism. "How are you going to get me up the steps?"

John grinned. He pulled Sherlock to his feet. The detective wobbled, but before he could fall, John caught him and scooped him up by the legs.

The cabbie laughed before he drove off, leaving Sherlock clinging to the doctor, like a blushing bride on her wedding day. John carefully carried the long-limbed man up the stairs, bridal style.

He deposited Sherlock on their sofa and then made his way to the kitchen. "Mycroft's minions have been by, I see," he chuckled when he saw that it had been scrubbed clean. He opened a cupboard and it was filled with food; a check to their fridge confirmed that it, too, had been restocked.

"He does like to meddle," Sherlock called from the sitting room.

John spotted a covered pot on the stove and lifted the lid. "Also, Mrs Hudson has made her homemade chicken and rice soup. Want a bowl before you go to bed?"

It was quiet a moment and John went to the sitting room. Sherlock looked up at him shyly.

"Will you be having some, too?" he asked John.

"Yep! I never pass up a chance for her soup. It should be made a sin to eat that stuff."

Sherlock chuckled. "I noticed you didn't say illegal."

"Oh hell, no. I wouldn't be able to eat it, then."

John reheated two bowls worth and brought it in to Sherlock, where they lapsed into a companionable silence as they ate. When finished, John took the bowls back into the kitchen and set them in the sink. He then made his way to Sherlock's room, where he got some things for Sherlock to sleep in.

He came back out and Sherlock's eyelids were already starting to droop. John went over and gently shook his shoulder.

"Hey, let's get you into something more comfortable," John said.

Sherlock blushed and John laughed.

"No, I meant your pajamas, you berk."

Sherlock removed his clothes and John helped when Sherlock had trouble. Thankfully putting the clothes on was easier, and Sherlock didn't require John to assist. He turned the t-shirt on inside out and John cast him a questioning glance.

"I've always wondered why you do that," John said as Sherlock pulled on the sleep trousers.

"Do what?"

"Turn your t-shirts inside out."

"Oh," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I have sensitive skin and the seams chafe."

"On a cotton t-shirt?"

"It itches," Sherlock defended.

"Whatever you say, mate," John conceded.

He looked at the detective and scratched the back of his neck. "We should get you into the bedroom. It'll be more comfortable and closer to the bathroom."

Sherlock blushed. Then he looked up at John and chewed on his bottom lip. "Where will you be?"

A slow, small smile enveloped John's face. "Wherever you need me to be."

Sherlock ducked his head. "Would it be too much to ask if you stayed with me tonight? In case I-" he tangled his hands on his lap.

"Oh." John blinked. "In case you need to use the loo."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Yes, thank you for spelling it out to no one but you."

John chuckled. "All right, I'm sorry." He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair to soothe him. "I'll be back in a moment. I'll go and get ready for bed, then we'll head to bed together, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. John was only gone a couple minutes before he returned in a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweat trousers. Again John picked up Sherlock bridal style, but this time Sherlock was ready for it and immediately clung to the good doctor.

The blond-haired man got Sherlock settled before walking to the other side of the bed and sliding in next to him.

"Good night, Sherlock," John muttered, as the toils of the long day gently swept him in slumber's embrace.

"Good night, John," Sherlock replied, sleep stealing him away as well.

* * *

The next couple of days saw Sherlock eating off John's plate and the doctor making sure to prepare enough for two, or at least one and half. By the time the week was out, Sherlock was back on his feet and terrorizing Lestrade for cases. John wasn't surprised when the Detective Inspector told him in no uncertain terms that Greg would not let Sherlock anywhere near a crime scene until he got the okay from John. Something John refused to give.

"I don't see why you won't let me take a case," Sherlock groused late Sunday evening.

"Sherlock, you just barely got well enough to make it to the loo on your own. You shouldn't go tearing off after London's criminal class, not until you get your weight up a little more."

Sherlock huffed, his fingers and legs dancing up and down as John steadily ignored him in favor of the evening paper.

Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He looked over at John. "You're going back to work tomorrow."

It wasn't a question.

Without looking up from is paper John said, "Nope." A smile graced his lips that he didn't even bother trying to hide.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, "No?"

John's smile grew and set aside the paper to turn his complete attention to the dark-haired detective. "I told them the day after we came home from the hospital that I was quitting. Didn't even bother giving them two weeks' notice."

"Why?" Sherlock pressed.

"I don't need it. I have plenty of money and I can still see my friends from there on pub nights." John put his hand on his chin and crossed his legs at the ankle.

Sherlock straightened up in his chair, his legs unfolding to the floor. "Really? Why do you have money?"

John chuckled, "Apparently being the death beneficiary for both my wife and best friend does wonders for one's bank account."

Sherlock grew still. "They didn't try to get the money back when I returned?"

John shook his head, "Evidently, two years is long enough for the insurance company to believe I spent it all. That or Mycroft intervened."

Sherlock's chest rumbled a deep chuckle. "My bet is on Mycroft."

John smiled. "Me, too. So don't worry about it, all right? I'm fine."

"But that can't be the only reason you were working at the surgery," Sherlock reasoned.

"Of course you'd pick up on that. I was also going because I am a doctor. I spent years earning that right. But I recently came to the realization that even though I'm using my degree, I'm not using it the way I wanted. Out there on the battlefield." He waved vaguely out the window. "But what I have with you replaced that with chasing criminals. I'm okay closing one aspect of my life. After all, that's what change is about, and fighting it is just ridiculous."

Sherlock nodded and then ducked his head. "I was worried that maybe you quit because of me fainting," he admitted shyly.

John stood up and put his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "I won't deny that it played a factor in making my decision. After all, that was what prompted Greg to remind me of the fact that I didn't need the job and it was only making us _both_ miserable."

"I don't want to stand in the way of something you want to do, John," Sherlock breathed.

"And you aren't. I promise. Me working at the surgery was my last-ditch effort to appear normal. Your accident just made realize that I don't want normal. I never did. If I had wanted normal, I would have become a GP in some little country cottage with two point four children, a white picket fence, and gotten older and fatter as I dealt with colds and broken bones for the rest of my life. But even when I tried for the white picket fence, I married a former assassin. I just _can't_ do normal."

"You never have been able to, you know?" Sherlock muttered leaning into John's touch like a cat.

"I know, so don't worry, all right?" John said. Sherlock nodded.

"You do realize that keeping me cooped up in here isn't the best idea, right?" Sherlock said as John moved back to his chair, changing the topic as the air seemed to crystallize with the tension of things left unsaid.

"I never said you couldn't leave, Sherlock. I just said you couldn't go chasing criminals. Tell you what, why don't we order some Thai, and then take a stroll through Regent's Park while we wait for the delivery. That way you can deduce all the other people and you can tell me all their dirty little secrets."

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh. "On one condition."

John raised an eyebrow, "Oh? What's that?"

"You order that mango sticky rice you ordered last time."

"Fair enough," John said, changing direction and heading to the kitchen to pull out the take-away menu for the nearby Thai place. He was dialing the number when Sherlock called from the sitting room, "Better make it two, I think I can eat one all on my own!"

John chuckled as the line connected. "Hey, yeah. I'd like two mango sticky rice, your beef pho, small..." He listed off their order and watched Sherlock get ready to go out, an adoring expression on the doctor's face. Yes, he was very happy with his life as it was. He didn't need the surgery, not when he had a consulting detective to make his life interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey, it's Saturday! *looks around to see if anyone is buying it, nope, shakes head* In my defense last week was a complete clusterfuck for me. The internet went down, my husband had to help his parents move and I was stuck watching the two year old, which even when did have time, I didn't have the inclination because my depression decided to sneak up and bite me in the ass and add to that having to work while trying to get over bronchitis and you can maybe see why this wasn't up last week.**

 **That said, I had my beta help me edit this on Wednesday but because of a little snarl in the story it took a while to get it whipped into shape. But here it is, can anyone spot where I stopped for a few weeks before starting back up again? ;)**

* * *

Sherlock was starting to notice small changes in John's behavior.

The doctor still ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, but John had begun doing other things. He would bracket Sherlock's waist with his hands as he squeezed past the dark-haired detective in the narrow confines of their kitchen. Or John would run his fingers across Sherlock's shoulder blades as he went to start the kettle if Sherlock was bent over his microscope. Or he would walk so close to Sherlock that their hands and shoulders brushed.

Then there was this look that Sherlock kept catching when the doctor didn't realize Sherlock was paying attention. Sometimes it was fond, other times it was this expression that Sherlock didn't have a basis for. He would like to say that it was warm, but it transcended warm. But it wasn't hungry or heated, just... John.

There were other things that seemed to change, in Sherlock's opinion, for the better. John would no longer run away when their arguments got heated, like he did before the Fall. It had hurt Sherlock when he had done that, and to see that John was trying to make concessions gave the taller man less desire to start arguments out of boredom.

They would watch telly together, and sometimes John would let him put on a documentary or historical drama that John used to say bored him to tears.

He never pestered Sherlock to eat, but he always made sure his pockets were filled with something that Sherlock could devour on the run.

Sherlock enjoyed it all so much. He just wished he knew _what_ he was doing to make John want to do these things or what he had _stopped_ doing. It was all very confusing, and time spent in his mind palace had yielded no answers.

It all came to a head one night after a case. They had chased the robber through a couple of blind alleys and when the Met had caught up to them, John and Sherlock were chatting over the bound criminal.

There was this pretty blonde PC who had been flirting with John throughout the case, and Sherlock hadn't meant to eavesdrop on them, he was just coming to get his blogger so they could go home. Oh, all right, he _could have_ left; but if John went out with this vile creature then his life would go back to the way it had been when John first moved back in, only with _dating_ this thing! That terrified him.

He could only see John's back, but he had a clear view of the PC. She smiled at his John and said, "So I was wondering if you wanted to go and grab a bite to eat. I'm really starved."

John shook his head, "I'm too knackered. This case has been hell. And nothing against you lot, but no one worked as hard as Sherlock and I."

The officer simpered. "Oh, come on," she implored. "I'd make it worth your while." She put her hand on his arm.

John took a step back, allowing her hand to drop naturally. "No, seriously. All I want to do is go home, put my feet up, maybe order some take away, and spend the rest of this miserable night in some good company."

Her laugh rang loud and shrill. "That's what I was suggesting, only with me and not Sherlock," she said with a wink.

Sherlock watched as John's shoulders squared. He had seen that pose often enough to know that his friend was well and truly upset.

"I'm flattered by your interest. I really am. But it hasn't even been a year since my wife died and I'm-"

She put her hand back on John's arm and squeezed it in a way that Sherlock assumed she thought was reassuring.

"I heard. It was tragic, but Sherlock is a bit of cold fish, isn't he? He couldn't have been much comfort for you, I could, maybe..." she trailed off, biting her lip suggestively.

Sherlock winced when John's spine straightened. He didn't have much sympathy for the blasting he knew she was about to get, however.

"Now, listen here," John said, his voice cold and piercing as steel. "Sherlock has been nothing but supportive and he never faked sympathy to get in my pants."

 _True_ , Sherlock thought wryly. _But only because I didn't think it would work._

"I'm not interested," John was continuing. "Nor will I ever be." The doctor leaned in close. "I'm a wounded vet with an adrenaline addiction. My best friend is a consulting detective, my wife was a former assassin. I have friends in the army, the Met. I even know the government himself. If you as so much as whisper anything ill about Sherlock again, I'll make sure you disappear." She squeaked and removed her hand.

"Now run along. And take this to heart: pushing yourself on someone who isn't interested is disgusting no matter the gender of the one doing the pushing."

She nodded and ran off.

Sherlock came out of his hiding spot just as John turned around, shaking his head.

"Sherlock!" he called. He jogged up to his friend. "How much did you hear?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"Christ, so all of it." John ran his hands over his face. "Because, you git, no one should have to stand there and hear someone talk about them that way."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not anything people haven't said before."

"And that makes it worse. You are brilliant and magnificent and you deserve all the praise in the world."

"Only from you," Sherlock whispered.

John beamed up at him and began soothing away Sherlock's fears by running his fingers through his dark, curled locks.

"You touch me a lot," Sherlock said, leaning into the touch.

"I know."

"Don't ever stop," Sherlock pleaded.

"Not ever, Sherlock," John breathed, his face coming close to Sherlock's. "Because I love you." He used his hand that was tangled in Sherlock's hair to bring the tall detective to his lips.

Sherlock sighed happily and melted into the kiss.

When Sherlock finally came up for air, he looked down at John, and there on his love's face what that expression that he had been trying to figure out. It was love. Pure, unadulterated love.

"You really _do_ love me," Sherlock breathed.

John chuckled into Sherlock's chest, then he raised his head. "Of course I do."

Sherlock ducked his head and turned to the side. "No one has loved me the way you do," he admitted.

John's smile turned sad and he lifted Sherlock's chin up. "Hey," he said and Sherlock couldn't help but look up. "It doesn't matter if there was no one before me, all that matters is that you'll never have to worry about it ever again, because I will always love you."

Sherlock sighed and placed his head on the top of John's. "I don't feel confident about this, at all."

John lifted his head and grasped the detective's face to press their foreheads together. "I don't either." John kissed him. "But we'll figure it out together. You and me against the world. Remember?"

"Always," Sherlock agreed.

"Let's go home," John suggested.

Sherlock nodded. Yes, home. That sounded good. Away from this place, to where they could be alone.

Later, Sherlock lay curled around John on the sofa, their bodies barely fitting as they watching reruns of Connie Prince. Sherlock nuzzled John's ear, he felt a thrill that he was allowed to do this any time he wanted to now.

"I love you, too," he whispered.

John twisted to face Sherlock, slotting them together, chest to chest. Sherlock's arms wrapped around the doctor to keep him from tumbling to the floor. "I know you do. You've told me time and time again, if I only had listened."

"You did," Sherlock murmured. "It just took awhile to understand what I meant."

John buried his head into Sherlock's chest, the shorter man's arms tucked between them. There was silence for a few moments, before Sherlock spoke.

"We can't chase criminals forever," he breathed.

John's head shot up with a grin. "Has my 'everything is transport' lover actually been thinking about retiring some day?"

Sherlock nodded, he leaned back from John to press against the back of the sofa. He lifted his hand off John's back and then ran a hand over his own chest. "I have ever since- ever since that day."

John's grin slipped off his face and he shifted to free one of his arms to cover Sherlock's hand with his own.

"When Janine came and visited me in the hospital, she mentioned that she had bought a cottage in Sussex. My mind has kept going back to that. The thought of retiring out there when my body can no longer keep up with my mind."

John smiled fondly. "Yeah, I can see that, the two of you bickering over the fence about whose flowers are pushing the other's out."

"And now I want that with you, only you would be with me instead of on the other side of the fence."

John kissed Sherlock again and breathed, "You softy."

* * *

A couple of months later, John came home from doing the shopping to find his lover engrossed in his microscope.

"How's the toes?" the doctor asked as he brushed his hand across this boyfriend's shoulders on his way to the fridge.

The detective huffed. "Disappointing." He got up and binned them in the container that John had bullied him into getting especially for the dead things Sherlock brought home. Then once a month either Molly or Mike would stop by and take them to be disposed of properly. After the third call in a week from neighbors about Sherlock _openly_ taking limbs and such things to Mrs. Hudson's bins, John and Greg had insisted.

"I'm sorry," John commiserated. And he was, if only for the fact that the experiment was supposed to last Sherlock a week. He began to put the food away.

"Guess who I saw today?" he asked as he put the eggs on the counter next to the fridge.

Sherlock turned around and raked his eyes over his lover's frame. "Janine."

John laughed and came up to kiss him. "I love it when you do that," he said against Sherlock's lips. He ran his fingers through those dark curls and the detective leaned into like a giant cat. John was sure that the man purred.

"I thought she had retired to Sussex," Sherlock muttered.

John laughed again. "Apparently it was too tame for her. She got bored. She missed the thrum and noise of London."

"Hmm..." Sherlock said as he pulled John close. "What's going to happen to the house?"

"She's not sure. She doesn't want to sell it. She might just rent it out to couples wanting to get out of the city."

"A couple's retreat," Sherlock groused. "I've seen pictures; that place deserves more than something as base and boring as that."

John ruffled his hair. "If only she would sell, I'd buy it for you."

Sherlock chuckled. "If only. You're the rich one, after all."

And their laughter filled the air of that tiny flat kitchen.

"Be that as that may, Mr Fancy Pants, your own bank account is nothing to sneeze at. Christ, Sherlock, you could buy Mrs Hudson out and own this place outright."

Sherlock shook his head. "I couldn't do that to her."

"You could let her live here and she could pay rent to you," John reasoned.

"Our rent is her only income. She doesn't have a pension, and all her husband's assets were frozen when he was arrested," Sherlock shook his head again. "No, John. I am quite happy to rent it from her until the day she dies."

John looked up at his lover. "You really are a softy, aren't you?"

Sherlock buried his head into John's shoulder, "I blame you for that."

John chuckled, "And for that I'm incredibly proud."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello darlings! I have posted on time! Aren't you proud? Um...I've had this since Monday, but in our defense, my beta, OldPingHai and I wouldn't have been able to get together later in the week.**

 **But to make up for me holding on to it, have a little bit of Mycroft whump and some delicious smut. Be kind on the smut, this only my second foray into sex in this fandom.**

 **Enjoy! Until next week!**

* * *

The days slipped by, and summer moved into autumn and then winter. It was two weeks before Christmas when that black car pulled up beside John as he was coming back from a night out with his rugby mates.

John looked at the open door and then with a sigh and shake of his head, he slipped in beside Mycroft's PA.

"Hello, what's the name today?" he asked.

"Hello, John. Anthea will be fine."

John sighed. Apparently he still wasn't going to get her real name. "Where am I being taken this time? An abandoned warehouse, his office at Vauxhall Cross, or the Diogenes?"

She smiled, her eyes never leaving the phone in front of her. "None of the above, actually."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, well, that's a change." He squinted out into the dark, but couldn't make out any of their surroundings due to the tinted windows. "So where are we going?"

She just shook her head and said nothing the rest of the trip. The car rolled to a near-silent standstill and she indicated that this was his stop. He got out and looked around. He was in a nice neighborhood, stately without being pretentious. That's when he realized that he was looking up at Mycroft's home.

Worry stirred a little in his gut as he walked up to the door. It opened before he could knock and there was a tall, regal-looking fellow in a suit on the other side. The man said nothing as he led the way further into the home. John would have liked to have seen more of the place, but everything seemed cast in shadow, and well...John thought it felt sad. Lonely, even. All this home and no one to share it with. John shook his head. He had enough on his plate without having to worry about Mycroft.

The man stopped in front of a set of heavy wooden doors and opened them for John. The doctor was used to the silence of Mycroft's underlings, but this coupled with the loneliness the house seemed convey, made everything oppressive. The doors closed tightly behind him and in the dim light of one desk lamp, John could barely make out the figure at the desk. John knew internally that it was Mycroft, but the creature before him was so unlike the well-kept-together man that John had trouble believing it.

Not even when Sherlock was in the hospital had Mycroft looked this disheveled. His hair was in disarray as though he had run his fingers through it constantly. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, the waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging off rounded shoulders. The tie was loosened and the top button undone. The shirt was rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He looked for all the world like a man who has just been given a death sentence. John then noticed the near-empty carafe of brandy and the very empty tumbler next to it. John stopped to wonder how full that bottle had been when Mycroft started to imbibe, and then realized it wasn't any of his business.

John turned around and hunted for a light switch. He found one and flipped it. When he turned around he wished he could turn it back off. Mycroft was blinking owlishly at him, dark circles around bloodshot eyes. The man's face was gaunt and pale, and John wanted to get him immediately to a hospital.

"Hello, John," the apparition muttered, sounding like the politician, but not. The voice that came was weary and rough, like someone who had been crying for hours or someone who hadn't spoken in days.

The politician tapped on the paper in front of him. "Would you care to explain this?" The please was so heavily implied that John took a step back, before surging forward to pick up the paper.

John frowned. "How long have you had this?" He completely ignored _how_ Mycroft got it. That was irrelevant. Mycroft could have gotten it any number of ways.

"A week."

John's frown deepened. "That's when I got it..."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I am immediately notified when either one of you makes a purchase that large."

"That's a bit creepy, Mycroft."

The man looked torn. "I can't- I have to know."

John's nose wrinkled in confusion. "Know what?"

"Are- oh god," Mycroft put his head in his hands and then drew them down until the tips of his fingers pressed over his lips. He sighed deeply. "Are you leaving my brother, John?"

John's head rocked back as though he had been slapped. "God, no. Never, Mycroft. How could you think that?"

"Because it's happened before."

John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock's had a boyfriend?"

Mycroft huffed. "I'm not sure either one would have classified their relationship as such, but yes." John's other eyebrow raced up to mirror its mate, eyes wide in shock.

"That is not the point, however; the point is that this young man was close to my brother and left. He had bought this lovely plantation in India, and Sherlock thought that they were going to go together."

John's face scrunched up. "Let me guess: the bastard left in the middle of the night, leaving Sherlock behind."

"And thus began my brother's love affair with drugs."

"And you're worried he'll go back."

Mycroft looked him square in the eye, "It's happened before."

John closed his eyes. Yes it had. It had happened before: not even two months into John's marriage to Mary, Sherlock had gone back to the drugs. Despite the younger man's protests to contrary.

John opened his eyes. "I promise, Mycroft, this isn't that. Call it a grand gesture on my part."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose and he finally took in John's appearance. His eyes raked over the short doctor's form. He held out his hand for the paper John was holding. John handed it back.

"Just make him happy."

"I can promise I'll try." He turned to walk away and then turned back. "Thank you for not just killing me or shipping me off somewhere dismal."

Mycroft chuckled. "I'm just glad it wasn't what it looked like."

John shook his head. "See you around, Mycroft."

"Until then, John."

* * *

John went home, feeling pensive. He hadn't thought much about Sherlock's romantic past. He had asked Mrs Hudson once during the Irene Adler fiasco, but other than Janine, John hadn't seen him with anyone. But it did seem more than a tad ridiculous that Sherlock had never had a romantic entanglement before Janine.

John walked through the door to their flat and smiled at the sight that greeted him. Sherlock was in his sleepwear and blue bathrobe, curled up on the sofa, sound asleep. John took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He walked over to where his lover lay and knelt down, carding Sherlock's riotous curls.

The detective stirred to consciousness and blinked up at him.

"Hello, beautiful," John greeted. "You could have gone to bed, you know."

Sherlock surged up and kissed him hard. "But if I had," he murmured, "I wouldn't have been able to do that." And then he began kissing trails down John's neck.

The doctor moaned. "And what a loss that would have been."

Sherlock chuckled into John's shoulder. "Indeed." His hands came to John's waist, slowly moving upward, pulling the blond man's shirt out of his jeans as he continued to nibble on John's neck.

John threw back his head, the moan turning into Sherlock's name.

"I missed you," Sherlock purred.

"Oh god," John huffed, his breath coming in short pants. He lifted his arms and allowed Sherlock to remove his jumper. His hands dropped to Sherlock's shoulders, and he pushed the robe off those slender shoulders to puddle at his waist. Sherlock slipped his arms out of the robe and then began to attack the buttons on John's shirt.

Soon both shirts were gone, dumped onto the floor, and both men ran their hands over each other's chest. Their kisses were heated and refused to stay on their mouths, instead roving over necks, ears, shoulders; anywhere they could reach without denying the other the pleasure of kissing their partner.

Sherlock reached for John's belt and pulled it off. The shorter man couldn't help but moan as Sherlock undid the button and slid down the zip.

The detective spread his hands on his lover's hips and panted into John's stomach, trying to catch his breath. Even though they had done this several times, for Sherlock each time felt as heady as the first.

"Go on," John urged. And with one swift movement the detective had pushed down both John's jeans and pants to his knees. John stood up and removed them rest of the way. Sherlock looked up at him adoringly. John's heart ached with how exquisite that expression looked on his lover. He reached down and pulled Sherlock to his feet to kiss him passionately. While their lips were occupied, John got busy divesting his boyfriend of the rest of his clothes.

"You gorgeous thing," John murmured against Sherlock's lips.

The detective chuckled as John pushed him back down on the sofa and straddled him.

"Someone is eager," Sherlock whispered.

"For you? Always," John replied, thrusting his hips forward.

Sherlock moaned and his hands went to grasp the doctor's arse. John's hands gripped Sherlock's shoulders as the detective gently lay John on the sofa. He bent over him, peppering John's chest and neck with kisses.

John couldn't take any more teasing and thrust his hips up to get friction. Sherlock obliged his love by grinding down.

"Oh!" John breathed. "Yes!" His legs wrapped around the taller man's hips and drew them together, trying to feel every inch of Sherlock's skin.

"I've got you," Sherlock assured him.

John nodded as the detective began rocking his hips against John's. The doctor threw his head back as pleasure surged through every bone in his body. Sherlock latched onto his lover's neck, purpling a bruise there and repeated the process all over John's chest.

John's breath became ragged and he began to thrust up, chasing his climax. Sherlock arched his back, his arms ramrod straight as he came. John felt the warm liquid hit his chest and with a few solid strokes from his lover's hand, followed into oblivion.

Sherlock jerked his head up as semen hit his chin. John was mortified for about two seconds before giggles welled up in his throat, threatening to bubble over. When Sherlock cracked a smile, John gave into the laughter, his love following suit.

They curled up on the sofa, and John whispered, "You know I'll never leave you, right?"

Sherlock snuggled close and nuzzled John's ear. "Mhmm."

"Good."

There were a few moments of contented silence before Sherlock spoke. "Mycroft told you about Victor, didn't he?" he murmured.

"Is that the bastard's name?" John bristled. "I still have friends in that area of the world. I could call in a couple of favors."

Sherlock chuckled. "Thank you, but no. He doesn't deserve the attention. No, John. I'm quite happy where I am at now. I didn't need to go chasing that past any longer. I have you."

"Too right." John settled his anger, before looking up at Sherlock, "Mycroft's already done something, hasn't he?"

"Not this time," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "No, it was my father. Everyone underestimates him, but he can be quite formidable. He flew down there and in three days found out where Victor was staying. He went and tore into Victor, gave him a proper dressing down. Victor called a couple days later to apologize and even offered to fly me down there to him."

"What did you do?" John asked, breathless.

"I told him where he could stick his offer. But the way he left changed me. He didn't apologize because he thought what he did was wrong, but because my father made him. I tried to block him out with drugs and then I found out what wonderful things it could do for my talent..."

"I'm glad you got clean, though."

Sherlock cuddled John close, "Me, too. Me, too."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey look it's Saturday...*mumbles about it being several weeks late* but it's still Saturday. Now in my defense I would have had this up sooner but my laptop reset in the middle of me typing it up and one of the updates had turned off the auto-save I thought I had on. So guess who lost half a chapter and spent weeks moaning over what was the most beautiful piece of writing I'd ever done? You guessed it, me.**

 **Thankfully for me and all of you, my beta has more sense then the wailing author and told me to write it again, better. I don't know if it's better, but I will say I am very pleased with the end result.**

 **I also didn't have the time as my husband went out town for Dragon-Con and because I couldn't get all the time off I needed to go with him, guess who stayed home and watched the two year-old? You guess right again, me! So, deepest and sincerest apologies and I hope the massive amounts of fluff in this chapter make up for it.**

 **Without further ado, Chapter Five (or as I've been calling it my head, "in which the author went so long without writing she forgot how to use commas!" Sheesh!)**

 **Thanks Old Ping Hai!**

* * *

"John..." Sherlock whined, throwing himself back against the passenger seat of their rental car.

John chuckled. "It's a surprise. They aren't meant to be deduced," he reminded him.

"Yes, but did you _have_ to get Mycroft involved?" the detective continued to whine.

"I wouldn't have been able to get anything past you otherwise. Besides, it's not so bad; it's not as though he is coming with us or anything."

Sherlock shuddered, and a warm silence settled on them as the scenery slipped by. Sherlock looked over at John, and his grumpy expression slowly melted away.

"Could you at least explain why we are taking a road trip in the middle of January?"

"Not the middle of January, the end," John said, his eyes still on the road.

"What's the difference?"

"Tomorrow is the 29th," John said, turning briefly to smile at Sherlock before returning his eyes to the front.

Sherlock frowned for a moment as he went through his mind palace. He sat up abruptly and clapped his hands together. "Oh!"

He reached for John's cheek and kissed it soundly, causing John to swerve a bit on the road. But once he had righted them, he chuckled.

"I knew you'd get it," he said fondly.

"The day we met," Sherlock said with a grin.

"Yep! Seven years. I take Mike out for a pint every once in a while just as a thank you."

Sherlock's grin threatened to split his face. "I, too, occasionally do nice things for the good doctor."

"Oh?"

"Mhmm...just last week, I lectured to his class about exotic poisons. Mike said it was a success. No one fell asleep."

John laughed. "That one is always the hardest not to sleep through. I'm glad you made it interesting."

"It wasn't that difficult," Sherlock said, with a shrug.

The rest of the drive was spent in companionable silence. Sherlock had started to doze and relax back in his seat, when the countryside became very familiar.

"John, what are we doing in Sussex Downs?" he said, turning in his seat to look at his lover.

"You'll see," John replied with a smirk.

John was only half way up the drive when Sherlock figured out where they were and leapt out of the car. As John wasn't going very fast, he just shook his head as he continued to drive the rest of the way up to the house.

Sherlock had already deduced where the spare key was, and the front door stood wide open.

John got out of the car and closed both doors before heading for the boot. He pulled out their luggage. A large army duffle for him and a sleek leather overnight bag for Sherlock.

He lugged them up to the cottage Janine had bought with her tabloid money. He left Sherlock to do his exploring like that mongoose in that story he read once as a boy, popping in and out the rooms, leaping over furniture, and opening every drawer and cupboard.

He put their clothes in the dresser in the bedroom and their toiletries in the adjoining bathroom.

John moved to the fully stocked kitchen, where he began to make them tea. Once it was through steeping, he added milk to his and sugar to Sherlock's. He sat down in the sitting room and settled to wait.

Sure enough, not five minutes had gone by when Sherlock appeared at John's elbow to take his tea.

He sat in the chair next to John's. "This place is better than the pictures she showed me. It really is a shame she's renting it out to anyone wanting to get out of the city. Could you imagine some yuppie couple in here, frowning at everything?"

John chuckled into his mug. "I think Janine is a little more discerning than that, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "It really is lovely, John. Thank you for bringing me."

"My pleasure, love."

The next day saw Sherlock in the reading room pouring over books on how to take care of the hives that were still on the property, and John pacing in the bedroom, muttering to himself and clutching an envelope to his chest.

John looked up at the clock, took a deep breath and marched into the reading room. Sherlock looked up from his book and gave John a curious glance and tilt of his head.

"I know it's not Bart's. The place where it all began, but I wanted it to be here. The place of our- I'm getting ahead of myself." He got down on one knee and smiled up at Sherlock.

"I wanted more than a ring for this. More than a piece of jewelry, I wanted something more meaningful." He handed Sherlock the envelope and said, "Sherlock Holmes, will you do me the honor growing old with me? To spend the rest of our days together, either here or at Baker Street. Say you'll bind yourself to me in the most significant way possible. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?"

Sherlock had opened the letter to reveal the deed to the cottage they were sitting in, with John's signature next to his name and a blank space for Sherlock to put his.

His hand was pressed to his lips and tears ran down his cheeks to pool around his fingers before tracing over the delicate lines of his hand.

Sherlock removed his hand from his mouth. "Yes," he cried. "God yes!" He put the deed on the side table and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of his newly betrothed.

"Until the end of days," Sherlock whispered when they came up for breath.

"Forever," John agreed.

* * *

A week later Sherlock swanned into Molly's lab at St. Bart's. The pathologist looked up at him and smiled.

"Someone looks happy today," she said, as she went back to the sample she had been inspecting. "Things are going well with John, then?"

Sherlock laughed. "I'll say, my John is quite the romantic."

"So you've said. In front of fifty or so wedding guests at his wedding to someone else," she said wryly.

"And I'll say so again in front that many of our own wedding guests," he said.

Molly looked up to see his wide, cheeky grin.

"Are you serious?" she asked.

He nodded, and she stripped off her gloves and hugged him. He awkwardly patted her back.

"That's fantastic, Sherlock. I'm so happy for you."

"Thank you. I have something to ask you," he said, biting his lip.

She stepped back and eyed him warily. "What would be so important Sherlock Holmes had to ask in person and not just send a text?"

"I need a best man and the only person who I would even consider to fill that slot, I'm marrying, so..." Sherlock said ducking his head.

"Why don't you ask Greg?" she asked.

"He told me that when I got with John that if we got married, he didn't want to be anywhere near the bridal party. He wanted to film the whole thing."

Molly laughed. "I don't know; then Mike, maybe?"

"Um...no. He doesn't have John's patience."

"Oh, um... I don't know who else you can ask. I'd say your brother, but..."

Sherlock laughed. "No." He grabbed her by the arms and looked her in the eye. "I don't need a best _man_ , Molly. I need a maid of honor and there is only one person who can fill that slot. You."

She blinked twice. "Oh." She blinked again as she processed his request.

She hugged him again. "Of course I will! I'd be honored." Then she giggled. "Honored to be the maid of honor."

"Molly..." Sherlock groaned.

"Right, sorry."

Sherlock dug out his wallet and removed a business card. He handed it to her. "Give him a call if you don't already have his number. He'll help you with anything you might need."

She took the card. It read: Detective Inspector G. Lestrade.

"Sherlock..." she said, her tone carrying a heavy warning.

"He's interested in you, Molly. He just thinks you won't be interested in him as he is neither a genius nor tall with dark, curly hair."

She blushed and then pushed at him gently. "One healthy, happy relationship and suddenly you're an expert?"

"The man I set Janine up with at the...'other' wedding, they got back together after..." he coughed, "well anyway, they married. Last month, in fact."

"Really?" Molly asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Wow." She looked at the card in her hand. "Did you go?"

"No. I'm not a fan of weddings. Besides, I'm an ex-boyfriend. I don't think that would go over very well."

She nodded. "You went to John's wedding, Mr 'I don't go to weddings'," she teased.

"John is special."

He turned to go, but turned back. "Though there is one other person's wedding I'd go to if they ever got married."

Molly laughed as Sherlock walked to the door. "Who's that? Mycroft's?"

He paused at the door. "God no. Wild horses couldn't drag me to the event."

"So, who then?"

"You." He winked at her and then closed the door behind him as she looked on in stunned silence.

* * *

Sherlock walked out of Bart's to the street feeling even better than when he went in. He called John.

"Hello, darling," he greeted when John picked up the line.

"I take it it went well," John said with a sigh.

"Of course it did, like there was any doubt," Sherlock said, as he waved down a taxi.

"I wish I had your luck. I just can't think of anyone."

"Bill said no?" Sherlock asked, sliding into the waiting taxi. He gave directions to the cabbie before turning his attention back to his fiancé.

"He's being re-deployed right after and won't have the time to devote to it."

"I'm sorry, John. At least he'll be able to make to the wedding," Sherlock said, trying to console him.

"It's a small consolation. But thank you."

"You could always ask-" Sherlock stopped. "Oh!"

"I know that 'oh', what's up, love?"

He was perfect. "Mike Stamford."

There was silence on the other end for a moment before, "Oh." It was quiet and a tad reverent.

"That's...that's perfect."

"Very much so. There were four people in that room that fateful day; who better to stand by our side than the other two? Molly and Mike," Sherlock explained.

"I'll call him, now," John breathed. "Hurry home. I want to thank you by shagging you into the sofa."

Sherlock laughed. "I'm on my way."

* * *

 **Just a little note about the chapter: Um... I am very vocal in my dislike of Molly Hooper, especially her portrayal in fan fiction. I'm not her biggest fan. That said; I honestly believe that this who Sherlock would ask to stand up for him at his wedding to John and thus this scene was born. Also I have a really soft spot for Lolly. As much as I love, LOVE, _LOVE_ Mystrade, this ship is far more likely to take place in canon. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry! I had this chapter done for a long time, just not typed up and edited (by the wonderful Old Ping Hai, no less). But here it is. I have this other story that is making my muse salivate in anticipation and I want to get this out so I can focus on the other story sans guilt about this one.**

 **I have the next chapter done and started typing up, so hopefully sooner rather than later.**

* * *

Sherlock looked in the mirror nervously as Molly tried to pin the corsage on his lapel.

"Stop twitching, Sherlock," she admonished.

Sherlock stilled his body, though his hands kept curling and uncurling. Molly finished attaching the mix of white wallflowers and alstroemerias to his chest.

"Separation anxiety?" she asked, stepping back.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath. He slowly opened his eyes. "I don't like it. Why couldn't we have got dressed together?"

Molly laughed. "Because you would have never made it out the door and to the chapel."

Sherlock blushed, but couldn't help but grin.

Molly turned to check herself in the mirror; she was wearing a deep blue, sleeveless tea-length dress that had a v-neck top gathered in the front and culminated with a matching flower. Her hair was pulled back away from her face and tied in a pretty bun. Her jewelry was minimal and her makeup light and airy.

"You could have just told me that you were gay," Molly said as she patted her hair.

Sherlock coughed and turned his head. "I'm not the man I was, Molly. It suited my purposes at the time."

She turned around to see him looking ashamed. She sighed. "I know. I'm just shit at timing, aren't I?"

He smiled shyly. "It never was your strong suit."

She laughed.

There was a knock on the door and it opened a crack to reveal the face of Mrs Holmes. Seeing that Sherlock was dressed, she opened the door just enough to slip inside.

She squealed in delight at Sherlock's tux and Molly's dress. "Well don't the two of you make quite the pair."

"Mummy!" Sherlock protested.

She waved her hand at him dismissively. "You knew what I meant, dear."

"You look especially lovely, Molly," Mrs Holmes said.

Molly twirled around, making her dress flare out. When she came to a stop, she said, "Well, your son has good taste."

"He gets it from me."

Sherlock grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling up.

"They're all waiting for us," Mrs Holmes said. Molly started for the door. "Don't forget your bouquet, dear," she reminded the girl.

Molly dashed back to grab it and then smoothed out her dress with her spare hand. "Okay, let's go."

Sherlock nodded and let them exit in front of him. He took a deep breath and then followed them out.

* * *

Mike was tempted to ask Greg to borrow a pair of handcuffs. He needed to tether John to something before he wore a hole in the carpet with all the pacing he was doing.

"Mate, please do my inner ear imbalance a favor and sit down," he pleaded.

John's head snapped up and then he blushed. "Oh shit! Sorry, Mike. Nerves, I guess."

"Were you this nervous the first time?" Mike asked, as John sat down across from him.

John's brow furrowed as he thought back to his wedding with Mary. "No."

"Tells you something about who you were marrying, doesn't it?" Mike said, with that same knowing smile from all those years ago when he declared, "Yeah, he's always like that," to a stunned John Watson.

"Were you setting us up? Even then?" John asked, rubbing his hands on his trousers.

Mike shook his head. "Not in the way you mean. Did I think that you two would make a perfect team, sure. But love? Not until he winked at you did I even think that it might tend that way."

"He turned me down the next day!" John objected.

"Well of course did!" Mike said with a laugh. "No one ever treated him like you did, John. He had no idea how long you'd stay."

John blushed. "Like I could leave him after he cured my limp."

"He did damn sight more than that."

John smiled. "Yeah, he did."

There was a yoo-hoo from the other side of the door, and John called out to enter.

Mrs Hudson came in and twittered at John. "I knew it would happen eventually."

John blushed. "You were always better at seeing that sort of thing than I was, " he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Thanks for standing in for my mum."

Now it was Mrs Hudson who blushed. "Oh, it was the least I could do, with Sherlock standing up with his mother. I couldn't leave you standing there with no one."

"You ready, Mrs H?" Mike said, standing up.

"Oh yes. It's just so lovely seeing my boys finally tying the knot."

John hugged her around the shoulders with one arm. "I know."

They walked out to where the wedding party was milling around, waiting for the grooms to arrive. Standing up for Sherlock were Mycroft and Wiggins. Mycroft wore the most sour expression having to stand next to the drug-addicted chemist. They were both in tuxedos with waistcoats that matched Molly's dress.

Standing up for John were Bill Murray and James Sholto. Both men wore dress blues: Bill because he was still active duty, and James because he was gifted the honor. Both looked sharp, and Bill was engaging James in conversation, drawing him out of his shell. Mike and John weren't in blues; with Mike not having any, they opted for the groom and best man in military- _inspired_ suits to match the other groomsmen.

John and Sherlock arrived at the group at the same time. They spotted each other and smiles lit up their faces.

It was time.

"This is your last chance to elope," Sherlock whispered to John as everyone arranged themselves.

"What, and miss Molly giving the best man speech? Never!" John said with a laugh.

Sherlock grinned and then turned to lead the procession into the hall they had rented for the occasion.

Sherlock and John stood in front of the official performing the ceremony, waiting for him to begin. They stared at each other like the other was a gift and a revelation, their perfect fit.

"John," Sherlock began. "I pledge to remember when running into danger that the most important thing is that you are always with me, even if it means I have to stop and explain. I pledge to try and understand that there are times and places for genius and there are times and places for gentleness. And trusting you to guide me into knowing which is which.

"I never knew that love could be like this. I always assumed that it was a defect found on the losing side. But how could I lose when I'm with you? It's not possible. I have said that you redeemed me, but I have come to realize I didn't need redeeming. I needed someone to understand that while I was unique, I was just like everyone else in needing love. I am fine being who I am."

John choked up. He swallowed harshly to get the lump out of his throat. He needed to be able to speak.

"Sherlock," he said, fighting back tears. "I pledge to understand that there are times when you need to be alone in your mind palace and to not take it personally when you do. I pledge to be by your side through every danger, whether it is the criminal class or the daily pitfalls of daily life.

"I always thought that I wanted a normal life. A wife, children, a white-picket fence. You taught me that I didn't need that. I may have wanted it, but I didn't need it. I needed the life you gave me. You keep saying how much I have saved you, but the real miracle is how much you have saved me. I will probably never know what made you look at me and say to yourself 'he'll do'. But I can't help be grateful that you did."

There were some other mumbled words from the official and the exchanging of rings, then finally after what felt like ages, the official pronounced them husbands and that they could finally kiss.

The kiss was like fireworks, and they broke apart to the cheers of the crowd.

* * *

Sherlock and John didn't have a garter or a bouquet, so they made their own things to toss.

John had written in a small leather-bound book all the little things that people had said about him and Sherlock being a couple over the years. From Jeanette's "My friends are so wrong about you. You're a great boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man," to the Cross Keys inn owner asking if Sherlock was a snorer.

He turned around and tossed the book over his shoulder to the crowd of single men. He whirled around to find out who had caught it to see a very stunned Greg Lestrade holding it in his hands. He tried to push it off on someone else but no one else would take it.

John walked up to the Detective Inspector and clasped his shoulder.

"I'm too old for this type of shit, John," Greg wailed.

"Nonsense. If I can get the biggest second chance in the world, who's to say that it can't happen to you, too."

Greg shook his head, but John squeezed his shoulder. "It'll be okay, besides it's just silly superstition, right?"

Greg nodded.

Then it was Sherlock's turn. He pulled out of his jacket the death Frisbee. The deerstalker.

He tossed it over his shoulder as goofy as could be to the crowd of single women. There was a bit of a tussle for it, but Molly emerged victorious.

She held it aloft to the cheering attendees, the biggest grin on her face. Greg looked at the book in his hands and the giddy Miss Hooper and knew he had to take a chance. It was time to be brave.

* * *

The next event was the couple's first dance, and Sherlock walked up to the front and cleared his throat.

"As it is coming to be a tradition, I have written a piece for John's first dance. Again."

There was some nervous twittering from the crowd. "I refuse to write another one," Sherlock continued and the nervous twitters became more anxious.

"There won't be another one!" John called out and there were a few laughs.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "As I am unable to play this time since I am John's partner-"

There were a few _awws_ from the throng of people.

"My brother Mycroft has offered to play in my stead."

There was some applause as Sherlock moved out of the way to reveal a seated Mycroft Holmes with a cello between his legs and the sheet music on a stand in front of him.

Sherlock stepped up to John and began the dance.

As the rich sounds of the cello filled the air, Sherlock whispered to John, "It feels different, dancing with you tonight."

John sighed. "I know, it feels deeper, more intimate, somehow."

Sherlock murmured his assent.

John leaned his head on Sherlock's chest and Sherlock placed his head on top of John's.

"Who taught you how to dance this well?" Sherlock asked, a chuckle trying to make itself known.

"You did, you berk."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:Yay! It's done. I am so grateful this is done. After nearly seven months, I glad to be finally moving on to something else. I have written three other stories while writing this and while this was fun, it didn't hold the same attraction as the others.**

 **Also this is where it earns its mild angst tag.**

 **Thanks to my beta Old Ping Hai who kept poking at me to finish it even when I despaired. I hope it is well worth the wait. The ending is much different then when I wrote it months ago. But better I think.**

* * *

John was starting to get a little nervous. Sherlock had gone into the shop almost an hour ago and they were already running behind schedule. John checked his watch again; very little time had passed since the last time he checked, but it was still closer to the mark than he would like.

Sherlock came out of the shop carrying a small white bag.

"That's all you got? I texted you three times and called once. You know the incense in that store gives me a headache. With how long it took, I would thought you'd bought out half the store," John huffed.

"It took me that long to convince the idiot shop boy to get it for me. He spent the whole time on his mobile," Sherlock sniffed.

John opened his mouth to say something when behind them he heard, "Sherlock?"

Both he and Sherlock turned around to see a well-dressed, dark-skinned gentleman waving them down. As the man neared, John could see that he was Indian-English and his teeth were so white that they hurt his eyes.

"Victor." Sherlock's voice was cold and hard.

John glanced up at his husband in shock. _This_ was Victor Trevor? Shit. He wasn't at all what he expected. All right, to be fair he was expecting more Tom Hiddleston than Sendhil Ramamurthy. But either way, this man screamed money and lots of it.

"It's so good to see you, Sherlock," Victor enthused, warmly taking Sherlock's hand and shaking it, while placing his other hand on the detective's shoulder.

Sherlock glowered, but Victor ignored it. "I was hoping to catch you here," he said with a wink. "A little bird told me."

Sherlock shrugged him off. "I didn't know that Langdale was still speaking with you. Remind me to send him a case of his least favorite beer."

"Oh, don't be like that, Sherlock. I had to bribe him with a case of India's best sonti." Victor frowned. "To be honest, I don't think it was the alcohol that convinced him."

"Oh?" Sherlock was suddenly interested. What would change Langdale's mind?

"He said that I deserved what was coming to me and that it would be fun to see," Victor replied.

John's head turned back and forth as though he was watching a tennis match.

"I have no idea what he meant," Victor whined.

"Oh, I do," Sherlock practically purred. John shivered, he loved that tone of voice in his husband. It meant an idiot was about to be laid low.

Victor smiled. "But who cares about that old crow, Sherlock. I'm here to take you to dinner. Just you, me and a nice bottle of wine."

That was John's cue. He stepped up between the two men and grinned. "Excuse me, but I am standing right here."

Victor looked him over with an eye of disdain. "And who are you that I should give a damn?"

John drew up himself up to his full height and said, "I am a doctor and a surgeon, I fought in Afghanistan, I have taken down men bigger than you, and I can break every bone in your body whilst naming them. I am Dr John Watson-Holmes and you are hitting on my _husband_."

With every word John forced Victor back a step, crowding him until his back hit the side of the shop. He turned and looked at Sherlock, who was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"You're ma-married?!" Victor spat out.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said coming up to stand next to John. "You see, Victor, I found someone who isn't interested in me just because I'm suddenly famous and worth the effort. You aren't interested in _me_ , Victor. You never were. You strung me along until daddy's money came through and then you vanished like a thief in the night. John has stood by me through it all. You are just a ghost. A shadow that defines my past. But you are not my future."

"I am," John said with a shit-eating grin. He looked at his watch. "And you aren't worth the time, speaking of which. Greg will kill us if we're late to his and Molly's wedding."

Sherlock glanced at his watch and nodded. "Right you are, John." He turned to Victor, "Goodbye and please don't keep in touch."

He slid his arm around John's shoulders, and John slid his arm around Sherlock's waist. They walked off into the crowd, completely ignoring the wide, open-mouthed gaping Victor was doing.

A man in a dark overcoat stepped out of the shadows, "I did try to warn you, Vicky love. But you wouldn't listen."

Victor rounded on the newcomer. "Now listen here, Langdale-" Victor began.

Langdale Pike just waved him off. "Do get in the car, Vicky," he said, as a dark sedan pulled up to the kerb. The passenger-side door opened to reveal Mycroft.

"Yes, do in get in the car, Victor. I'd make some kind of threat, but I'm sure you are aware of the danger you're in," Mycroft said, leaning forward so he could look up at Victor.

Victor gulped, but didn't make a move toward the car.

"My father was kind," Mycroft growled. "I am not kind. Not where Sherlock Holmes is concerned. Get. In. The. Car."

Langdale pushed Victor toward the opened door and then slid inside once Victor had haltingly entered the vehicle.

"Don't worry, Vicky darling," Langdale said with a chuckle. "We're just going for a ride to the airport and on the way there, the three of us are going to have a lovely chat about you never setting foot on this continent again."

* * *

Years pass and they see the birth of William Hamish and Lily Marie Lestrade. Will was born in the middle of a triple murder. John thinks it was a new record for the detective on how quickly the case was solved. Lily was born a couple years after that.

It was then that Greg announced his retirement from the force. And after a couple of years of Sherlock losing his patience with the new Detective Inspector, John and Sherlock, too, decided to hang up the deerstalker and retire.

They threw a huge party at Baker Street. Mycroft wasn't as spry as he used to be, Mrs Hudson had to be helped up the stairs to 221B, and Molly and Greg brought Will and Lily. But there were others there as well, former clients, members of various other police departments, friends they met along the way, all of them crammed into the tiny space that was the living room.

Halfway through the shindig, John called for everyone's attention. He took Sherlock's hand in his and smiled up at the detective.

"Thank you all for coming," John began. "I know all of you think that we are here to support Sherlock's recent success-"

" _Our_ recent success," Sherlock interrupted. "I couldn't have done it without you."

There was a collective "awww" from the crowd.

John blushed. "Our success then," he continued. "But that isn't the reason why you all are here. It has been a long journey for Sherlock and me. From that first case with Jennifer Wilson and the Study in Pink," John raised a glass to Greg and Molly, "to Sherlock's Hiatus and his return." He raised his glass again, this time to Mycroft. "From empty hearses," he pointed at Anderson, who ducked his head and blushed, "to Mary and beyond." He stopped and choked back a sob. "Sherlock and I have weathered much in our journey. And while he has always loved me, it took me years to realize I felt the same about him.

"I thought I wanted a simple life. A quiet life with a white picket fence, a pretty wife, and the requisite number of children. But Sherlock showed me that I didn't want that. That in all likelihood, I never have. I was still chasing that desire when Sherlock fainted running after a criminal."

Sherlock blushed hotly. "Not my finest hour," he interjected.

John gave his hand a squeeze. "Probably not, but who knows what would have happened if you hadn't."

"Oi, you lot would have gotten there eventually," Greg called from the back.

"See, John," Sherlock said with a smile, "Even Greg thinks we were smart enough to figure it out."

John looked at the hand that held the drink for the toast and the other hand that held Sherlock's and sighed. "I don't have enough arms. But I will swat you for that later."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled. "You promise?"

Molly thrust her hands over Lily's ears. "Sherlock!"

He chuckled, unrepentant.

John cleared his throat. "Right. That night produced a change in me. A shift. Subtle, but very crucial. I shifted my priorities from what I thought I wanted, a normal life, to what I truly needed, a lifetime of adventures next to Sherlock Holmes." John wiped a tear from his eye using the hand that held Sherlock's and then Sherlock kissed it away from their joined hands.

"But it's time for new adventures, ones that don't include chasing criminals. We are hanging up the deerstalker for good. We are retiring."

There was a small grumble of disappointment, but it seemed for the most part everyone was happy for them.

* * *

They spent a few more years at Baker Street, until Mrs Hudson passed away. They packed up and moved out to Sussex Downs to the cottage John bought when he proposed, all those years ago. It was time to get away from the city. Far too many people still knew their address and would come to them with problems. And they wanted to get as far from that as they could.

They couldn't bear to sell it, so they boarded it up and told Molly that when Will was old enough to need a place of his own, it would be his. They had talked it over with Greg and Molly, first, as Will was barely sixteen at the time, but they agreed that upon him turning of age, Baker Street would be his.

They still got visitors, of course. Will would come most often after his father died and Molly became too ill to walk. Lily had outgrown their stories and had stopped visiting when she was but a teenager. Mycroft didn't live much longer than Greg, the stresses of his job put such a strain on his heart.

Of the original group it was down to Sherlock and John, and Molly. And Molly knew her time was coming to an end.

It was a race to see who would go first, her or John, whose failing health had emaciated him.

Will began to visit them every other day to make sure that they were okay.

It was a cool autumn evening when Will came to visit. He was running late because the class he taught had gone over.

He knocked on the door but there was no answer. He turned the handle and it opened the door. Will frowned. It wasn't like Uncle Sherlock to leave it unlocked.

"Uncle Sherlock!" he called. "Uncle John!"

They weren't in the front room or the study. Will poked his head out back, where the bees were kept, but they weren't there either.

He searched the house high and low, but could not find them. He finally decided he should check the bedroom for them. But when he opened the door, what he saw made him sink against the doorframe and sob.

Sherlock and John were curled up together on the bed, both having passed in the night. Joined in death as they were in life.

Will called his mother and told her the news. She didn't live long enough to attend their funeral. So Will planned Sherlock and John's funeral, while Lily planned their mother's.

At Sherlock and John's funeral. Will got up and said this:

 _"Here dwell together still two men of note_  
 _Who never lived and so can never die:_  
 _How very near they seem, yet how remote_  
 _That age before the world went all awry._  
 _But still the game's afoot for those with ears_  
 _Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:_  
 _England is England yet, for all our fears—_  
 _Only those things the heart believes are true._

 _Here, though the world explode, these two survive,_  
 _For they will always thrive."_

* * *

 **A/N: The two men that John mention in describing Victor are where me and the fandom disagree. Most of the fandom picture Tom, while I picture Sendhil. Although, there are those few outliers that think he looks like Idris Elba...so yeah.**

Also I totally cribbed from Vincent Starrett. I'm still not sure I like it. But I'm just going to have to live with it.


End file.
